


Choir and Ice

by icouldnotsee (herprettysleeper)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: (don't bail out just yet please), Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, POV First Person, okay all for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:59:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herprettysleeper/pseuds/icouldnotsee
Summary: In which there's been too many years and not enough contact, but he's decided to change that, for better or for worse.





	

Decisions, at one point in my existence, were my strong-suit. I wasn’t rash or stupid or blindingly devoted. I used to have common sense, which, unsurprisingly, ain’t all that common.

But that doesn’t matter now, hasn’t mattered for nearly a decade. Not since I met you. 

With you, it was never knowing the road ahead. It was chasing after what I wanted blindingly and without caution. It was throwing that oh-so-coveted common sense out the window.

You are the reason why, instead of spending my weekend between Jared and Misha’s trailers and the closest bar, I’m in my car driving at midnight, having left Canada yesterday. I’m doing what I told you to, once.

When the doubt sets in, I’m maybe thirty minutes from where you should be. You might’ve left, for all I know. You might be happy with someone else. I can’t expect you to have held on to a couple summers and too many painful school years like I have.

It’s a couple minutes past one in the morning when I’m standing at your front door. I raise my hand to knock, hesitate. It’s early. I’ll wake you up. I should go check in at a hotel and see you tomorrow. I should–

The lights of your apartment turn on, and I can see the silhouette of a girl walk tiredly across the living room, and something tells me I should run. This was a mistake, I didn’t think this through at _all._

The door opens a crack. “Yes–” you stop. Blink and rub at your eyes as if this might be a dream. “Jay?”

“Hi.”

You open the door wider. “Not every day a famous actor shows up on your doorstep.” The tension in the silence afterwards is thick enough to cut until you say, “It’s cold. Come in.”

I enter the room, and you show me to the dining table, start rummaging through the cabinet for something for me.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” I say, but you turn from the stove, where you’re throwing together a quick meal of Ramen to stop me.

“Don’t be. If you called, I could of planned a bit more, though.” You say it nonchalantly, but it feels like a small accusation. I push that aside, realize you’re still wearing your name tag from work and there’s a whistle around your neck. Gym teacher.

There was a time in which the lives we live now would’ve been laughable. Our lives used to be classical music and studying and rollercoastering emotions during the day, and classic rock and claustrophobic parties and booze we shouldn’t have been drinking at night.

I act now, and you teach.

Laughable.

“So, how’s it been going?” I ask.

You lean against the countertop. “It’s alright. I teach, ya know? P.E.” Theory confirmed.

“So you willingly spend time policing children?”

You chuckle, and it warms something within me. “Crazy, I know. But they’ve gotta listen, after all,” you tug on the lanyard around your neck, “the whistle makes me their God.”

I join you in a laughter that is so comfortable that it almost aches. I missed this.

You set out the bowls and sit down, and we eat half in silence, half with small talk, briefly catching up. Two questions start to form in the air. You ask the unimportant one.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

I shrug. “I was gonna stay somewhere nearby.”

You ponder over that, then say, “It’s late. You can stay here tonight, if you want to.”

Of course I want to. Given the choice, I’d stay here forever. “Thanks. I think I’ll take you up on that.”

Half an hour later, when you’ve showed me the place and I’m about to enter the guest room for bed, you ask the important question.

There’s some hesitation, then, “Are you ready?”

I pause. Think about how to answer that.

Eight years, and you’re still here. After everything, you haven’t forgotten.

I answer you with a kiss that you respond to, and there are a couple teardrops rolling down your face.

_Yes, Y/N._

It’s silent, but you hear it.

_I’m ready._


End file.
